


Second Chances

by Xyriath



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angsty ficlet I wrote for <a href="tealgeezus.tumblr.com">Teal's</a> birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

Jason, despite what he might have told himself, despite the anger which he had been unable to let go, always thought that they would get another chance.

But history is cruel and has no place for sentimentality as it repeats itself, traveling inevitably to the same end, again and again.

The realization had dawned on him like a sunny day at the beginning of spring, a breath of fresh air after an eternity buried underground.  It hadn’t been a sudden epiphany, had instead been the result of years of working through festering anger and conversations partially finished, but he had finally embraced the realization that, despite everything that lay between them, he wanted to try again.

It had been a fight, for certain, acknowledging that he wasn’t incapable of forgiving Bruce, that he wanted to forgive Bruce, that he knew Bruce would forgive him without a moment’s hesitation

And there was more there, too, the unspoken promise of being willing to venture beyond the platonic, if only it was in an attempt to heal the rifts between them.

But how did you say that?

Especially to Bruce Wayne, emotionally stunted manchild extraordinaire.

He told himself he was only looking for the right opportunity.  That it would be easiest to catch Bruce in one of his rare good moods if he followed.  Planned.  Watched.

And oh, did he watch.

It was more of a dance than a fight, a dance performed in front of a particularly oafish, participating audience.  While Jason’s fighting style had been similar, it had lacked the polished grace that sent Bruce flying from one man to the next, a series of uppercuts and shorter, flurried punches leaving thugs in crumpled heaps on the wet street.  And it took Jason’s breath away, so much so that he didn’t even want to approach, didn’t want to interrupt this performance that Jason took too much joy in deluding himself was only for him.

Until Bruce didn’t see the knife.

Jason did.  While the darkness and drizzle concealed it from the half-distracted Bat, Jason saw the glinting steel—an intimately familiar model, one he knew would slice through the kevlar like butter—and was bolting down two stories the moment it went for Bruce’s kidney.

He wasn’t fast enough, of course; he had known there was no possible way he could be.  But he could provide necessary backup if things went wrong.

Which they did.  They could have gone worse, but Bruce managed to block the knife halfway and deflect it so it only opened a (hopefully) shallow gash on his back.  He turned to disarm the man, and Jason arrived just in time to land on the person behind him that was about to clock Bruce in the head with a brick of concrete.

“Evening, old man!” he greeted with faux-cheer, grin wide.  For a moment he wished he had brought the helmet, but it was too late now.

“You’ve been following me.”  The voice was low and—and ragged.  Jason hadn’t realized from afar, but Bruce was in a bad spot.

He didn’t answer, only turned all of his attention towards evening the odds a little bit.

And they fought well together; they really did.  They fell so easily into old patterns, complementary styles, and though Bruce was flagging, Jason brought a much-needed vigor to their dynamic that he could instantly tell Bruce had missed over these past years.

It wasn’t even conscious thought that propelled him towards the man holding the gun, not when it was pointed directly at Bruce’s head and Bruce was occupied elsewhere.  He led with his shoulder, rushing in to knock the man down—

The shot didn’t register for a moment.  There was a ringing in his ears, a faint stinging sensation, and then an explosion of pain in his head as it cracked against the concrete and in his neck as he felt warm liquid pool on his cheek and shoulder.

He didn’t realize what was happening at first, didn’t know why he was suddenly horizontal, why the wet concrete was scraping into his cheek, why Bruce was still moving rapidly, knocking out the last of his opponents now that he had regained his footing.  Jason opened his mouth, tried to call for him, but all that he heard was a horrible choking noise, a copper taste flooding his mouth that he didn’t want to swallow but couldn’t spit out.

And then Bruce had finished, was turning to confront Jason, a smattering of blood on his face from where the bullet that had clipped Jason’s neck had whizzed by, close enough to mark but not close enough to hit.

Because of Jason.

And then Bruce’s mouth widened and a faint noise pierced through the fuzz in Jason’s head—what might have been a shout, though Jason had no idea what it could have said—and he was dropping to his knees in front of Jason, surrounded by unconscious bodies.

I forgive you.

Jason had so many things he needed to say.  He opened his mouth again, to try, but there was just that broken gargling again.

I need you.

Bruce was reaching down, gathering him in his arms, terror in his eyes, and all Jason could dimly think was that at least he would get to feel Bruce hold him, this time.  One last time.

I lo—


End file.
